It all hinges on this one thing.
I approach the barbell, standing on an elevated platform. Smug with the knowledge that barbell movements were typically in my wheelhouse, I set up with my hands wide on the 35-kilo bar and flattened out my back.
“Give me a big arch in your back, like an angry cat,”
Confused, I lifted my hips.
“No, not like that. Arch your back.”
I squeezed the bar harder, and rounded my upper back.
“No, think: really, really angry cat. Arch. your. back.”
This went on for a while. I was reluctant to give up my textbook “flat-back” deadlift set up, but it quickly became clear that this wasn’t a fight he was willing to lose. Eventually, Richard ditched the cat imagery and resorted to poking and prodding to get me into position.
“He wants me to lift the bar with a rounded back?” I thought with genuine disbelief.
Frustrated but peer-pressured into playing along, I kept my thoughts to myself. Richard gestured at me to keep my head down, and lift the bar.
“This cannot possibly be right. I guess this is how I die;”
I let out a faint joke; a proverbial knife slicing through the palpable tension in the room created after extensive negotiations. The self-deprecating humour masked undertones of a deep-seated anxiety that was very real and personal to me - 21-year old Mel, with a herniated slip disc in her L5/S1 really, really did not want to do this.
“Just lift the damn bar, Mel,”
Jolted back to reality, I focused on recalling the story that we made up: a hunched over cat, eating its meal jumps in surprise. No cues on squeezing anything, or locking out a joint - all he asked of me was to be the cat in the story. Jump up in surprise without leaving the ground.
The room watched with bated breath as I wrapped my hands around the bar. I stood the bar up, and looked towards Richard for approval. He hung his head and let out a sigh.
Rep after rep, it felt like an endless tug of war. For every inch of disbelief I was willing to suspend, Richard asked for more. He pushed, I pulled back. The tug of war between a coach and an athlete is birthed out of two things: pride and trust. Despite saying that I wanted to learn, this stressful debacle came down to two things:
I was too prideful to accept that something I’ve done for years could be wrong - even if that very method brings me pain/does not work.
I didn’t trust Richard enough to have my best interest.
“No, stop trying to flatten your back!”
The harder I tried, the worse it got.
Richard gestured for me to make another lift but I kept my head down; on the verge of tears, I gently let go of the bar. I muttered a word of apology under my breath, and sat in a corner. The class went on as I fought back tears from streaming down.
During our session break, I walked up to Richard and apologized - it wasn’t the first time I’ve cried because of CrossFit and I’m sure it wouldn’t be the last, but I felt inclined to make sure he understood that it wasn’t on his conscience.
“I felt lost - I couldn’t tell a good rep from a bad rep... It wasn’t you.”
“Why does that bother you?” He looked at me empathically. I began to sob again. (I told you.)
“It just doesn’t make sense. I can put 70-kilos overhead in a snatch, but can’t bend over to rack the plates onto the bar without feeling a twinge in my back. There are things that I’ve written off as being inaccessible to me since my slipped discs happened, but its beginning to feel so stupid that I can’t bend over and pick up something, but I can rep out 20 deadlifts at 115-kilos.
This. doesn’t. make. sense.”
I was bawling at this point.
We didn’t revisit the bar that day.
But on the next day, we started with a 400m deadball carry. As Richard tailed me the whole way through, I screamed, kicked and swore. He stood by to reassure me that he wasn’t going to lift a finger to help. It was pure agony.
As I dropped the 30-kilo ball at the front of our gym doors, I swore that I was done. My back was lit like a Christmas tree and all my worst fears were laid bare. He reached out to me for a high-five on completing, and I swallowed my pride to take his hand. As the four of us took the purple couch upstairs to kick off day 2, the most bizarre thing struck me: the dull ache that usually sits with me throughout the day in my lower back is suddenly gone.
Disbelief turned to surprise, surprise turned into joy.. and joy turned into openness. The experience, as agonizing as it was, gave me a glimmer of hope. A hope that I had abandoned since the morning I woke up unable to sit up from my bed or walk myself to the bathroom, after a series of deadlifts. A hope crushed by doctors warning me to stop lifting weights if I wanted to be able to withstand child-birth in the future.
For the first time in a long time, I had a day truly without any pain or fear.
I had no idea how liberating it was until the freedom was returned to me. As my skepticism vanished, so did my pride. I opened my notebook, suddenly ravenous for a whole new world where everything was familiar but not.
If I could pass this liberation on to one person, this would have all been worth it.
None of this was written to promote Strongfit or its seminars. All recollection, photos and stories are shared out of an outpouring of gratitude for the experiences I’ve had. Thank you, Julien, Richard and team Strongfit, for everything that you do.